


Tongue and Groove

by dizzzylu



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hand Kink, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is one way Jensen could start his day...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tongue and Groove

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this comment](http://docepax.livejournal.com/13704.html?thread=195720#t195720) from elvisglasses5 to kriari's amazing Dovetail: _now I'm craving early morning pr0n where half-naked Jensen pads down to find Misha in his workshop in great concentration wearing only pj pants that are sliding off his hips. And then of course he has to fuck him right then and there_. This fic, however, is not related to Dovetail in ANY way.

When Jensen peeks at the clock, it’s only 7:17AM and the other side of the bed is already cool. He frowns and stretches, takes a deep breath through his nose. The bathroom’s dark and the hallway, too. He doesn’t smell coffee or breakfast, but Misha’s running shoes are still by the closet. That leaves only one place Misha could be.

He slips out of bed and into his jeans, zipping them up but ignoring the button. He washed up in the bathroom, a quick brush of his teeth, and scans his reflection in the mirror, chuckling at what he sees. His hair, longer than he keeps it during filming season, looks like it’s trying to escape his head, sticking up in twenty-seven different directions. And his scruff (well, nearly a beard, really) makes him look like he’s trying to pull off a bad Wolverine impersonation.

 _Later_ , he thinks. He’ll shave later.

When he gets downstairs, Jensen can hear the music in the garage which confirms his suspicions. He makes a beeline for the coffee maker and the canister of his favorite French roast. The scent of it curls around him, dark and delicious, and he takes an exaggerated breath through his nose, remembering the trip they took to Dallas, Misha meeting his parents for the first time, finding the new coffee shop his sister loves. The one with the semi-regular open mic night that Jensen half-considered participating in.

The grinder temporarily drowns out the muffled beats of The Kills, takes long enough for Jensen to set the tea kettle in the sink and start the water running into it. While the coffee maker does its thing, Jensen studies the open cabinet above, finds the Earl Grey Creme Misha prefers in the mornings. He makes a mental note to pick up more the next time they have to make a mall run as he measures out the leaves into the tea ball.

While the water heats up in the kettle, Jensen approaches the fridge to take stock, to figure out what he can MacGyver up for breakfast. There are various leftover vegetables that he can throw in an omelet, as well as half a brick of Misha’s favorite extra sharp cheddar. They have just enough eggs left for two, and a quarter pound of bacon in the meat drawer. Add the little bit of cantaloupe left for Misha and a banana for Jensen, and he’s fairly confident they won’t starve.

Especially if he steals most of Misha’s bacon, Jensen thinks, scratching his belly.

By the time he’s got a plan sketched out, the kettle’s whistling, so he tends to that, the drip of the coffee maker quiet behind him. After adding a splash of milk to the tea and a teaspoon of sugar to the coffee, he’s ready to head out to the garage.

The cement is cool and damp under his bare feet, the slap of his steps hidden beneath the music. Jensen smiles at the sight of Misha, bent over his workbench, a subtle bounce in his hips. He’s only wearing his pajama pants, which are just barely hanging on, and there’s a pencil tucked behind his ear. Jensen looks around for a safe place to put Misha’s tea, then leans against the counter, coffee in hand, and watches Misha work.

Misha’s oblivious here in his workshop, lost to whatever creative whim takes hold. Jensen knows that Misha’s not a fan of being watched, not like this, but Jensen can’t help himself. It’s like watching a painter paint. He wants to witness the process.

Okay, so maybe it’s not the process he enjoys watching as much as it is Misha’s hands. Jensen finds himself doing that more often than he should.

Right now, they’re involved with the door of an armoire, one hand holding it steady while the other uses a small-tipped gouge on the scarred wood, coaxing some kind of design out of it. Misha makes it look effortless, fingers barely flexing around the tool. It almost looks like he’s painting on a canvas instead. Every so often, he has to dig a curl of wood out and brush it away, fingertips skimming over the wood, reverent.

Misha pauses and stands back, taking in the whole picture again. He’s holding the gouge between two slim fingers, bouncing the end of it against his thigh. Turning to the tray of tools to his right, he sets it down, his hand hovering, fingers twitching until he picks up a new tool with an even smaller tip, and uses it to create more intricate detail. He straightens up again, thumbs away the new dust and shavings, and nods his head once, apparently satisfied.

He crouches to pick up a piece of sandpaper, his pants pulling down, drawing Jensen’s attention to the beginning swell of his ass and Jensen suddenly, desperately wants to use his tongue there, follow the line down. Lick Misha open until he’s shaking apart, then keep going just because he can.

“I know you’re there,” Misha says, finally, not turning around when he stands up.

Jensen has just enough sense to feel a little ashamed. “I brought tea,” he offers by way of apology, pushing off the counter to bring it over. Misha accepts it, but still doesn’t look up. Jensen’s gaze lands on the line of Misha’s spine, follows the bumps until they end. His thumb twitches, wants to trace the ridge.

Misha straightens and turns, murmurs a thanks, pants slipping a fraction lower on his slim hips. Jensen knows what that skin feels like under his fingers and can’t stop himself from letting his hand rest there. Misha resists slightly when Jensen tries to pull him closer, but there’s a twinkle in Misha’s eye and a quirk to his mouth that Jensen wants to kiss. Jensen leans in, hesitant. Misha lets him.

It’s soft and slow, Jensen teasing lightly with his tongue until Misha opens up for him, melts into it. When Misha’s tongue finally strokes back, languid and slick, Jensen makes a pleased sound low in his throat and his hand automatically slides to the dip in Misha’s back when he tips forward, body flush against Jensen’s.

There’s another bench behind Jensen and he sits on it, pulling Misha into the vee of his legs. The move gives Misha a height advantage, and he makes the most of it. His hand fists in Jensen’s hair, tugging to change the angle, turning their kisses into something deeper, more familiar, a filthy wet tangle of tongues and teeth. Jensen settles his forearms on Misha’s hips, making sure to keep his hot coffee cup well away from bare, sensitive skin.

Misha tugs sharply on Jensen’s lower lip when Jensen pulls away to catch his breath and nose at the blade of Misha’s jaw. Jensen takes a deep breath and it smells a little of stain and mineral spirits, but Misha’s there underneath. Fresh air, a hint of the soap in their shower, sweat. He nips at the line of Misha’s stubble, shorter than Jensen’s beard by a week, and moves lower. The bruise he’d left where Misha’s neck joins his shoulder is fading, and Jensen sets about fixing that.

Misha’s hand is still knotted in Jensen’s hair, tugging, and Jensen lets his head tip back for another bruising kiss. He whimpers when Misha tries to step out of the circle of his arms, his lower lip puffing out in a gesture not unlike a pout.

“Don’t push your luck,” Misha says, laying a wet, smacking kiss on Jensen’s forehead. “You’re forgiven for peeking, but now it’s time to go.”

Jensen just tightens his hold. “Ten more minutes,” he bargains, hopeful.

Misha sips at his cooling tea, thinking. “Five minutes.” He adds, “Or nothing,” when Jensen tries to protest. He brushes his thumb over Jensen’s lips, damp and kiss-swollen, while he waits for an answer.

Jensen, of course, has no choice. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Misha squints at Jensen, gulping down the last of his tea, and glances at the clock before turning back to his work, mug abandoned next to Jensen on the empty table.

Jensen watches the clock, too. Lets the second hand tick off a minute before he sets his mug down and approaches Misha, who is once again bent over the table, chisel in one hand, his other palm smoothing away shavings and dust. He rests his hand on Misha’s hip, just above the waistband of the pants, his thumb sweeping in a wide arc. Jensen smiles at the goose bumps that ripple out from the point of contact. The smile widens when Misha doesn’t make him stop.

Despite the coolness of the garage, there’s still a line of sweat on Misha’s neck, darkening the hair and making it curl. Jensen lays a kiss there, another just below, drapes his body over Misha’s to follow the line of his spine with his lips. As he gets lower, his beard catches on Misha’s pants so that when Jensen pulls away, they slip down, far enough that it only takes a gentle tug of his fingers for them to slip over Misha’s ass and pool at his feet.

The skin is pale, warm. Jensen smooths his rough palms over it, quirking a smile when Misha growls his name in warning. But Jensen knows. Misha’s hands have stopped moving, are probably gripping at the table in an effort not to push back into Jensen’s touch.

There’s a light sheen in the small of Misha’s back and Jensen laps it up, then works down, carefully dropping to his knees. He lays sucking little kisses and sharp nips along the way, scratches his beard on tender skin, smiling at every gasp and twitch he gets in return.

With his palms flat on Misha’s ass, Jensen holds him open, gently brushing his thumb over the warm, damp skin. Misha’s groan is barely out before Jensen licks a long, slow stripe up and back down, then again, and Misha’s legs are already trembling, a minute vibration against Jensen’s hands.

Jensen scoots a little closer, noses at Misha’s balls, flicks his tongue out at them before swiping up, tongue flat and rough, over the perineum. The taste here is different, darker, still Misha, but it sits heavier on Jensen’s tongue. Jensen circles Misha’s hole, light and teasing. There’s a thunk, Misha’s head hitting the wood, and a long, low _fuck_. Misha’s knees waver, too, but he manages to stay upright. Jensen rewards him with more pressure, a slower tease. The tight ring of muscle flexes over and over, stuttering every time Jensen teases at it with the tip of his tongue.

It doesn’t take long for Misha to start thrusting his hips back, aborted little movements against Jensen’s firm grip. He resettles his hands, opening Misha wider, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against the heated skin. Uses the flat of his tongue to get Misha good and wet. He rubs the pad of his thumb there, too, slicking it with his spit and letting the tip of it slip in. When he feels pressure around it, he withdraws, replaces it with his tongue, and Misha bucks, yelping.

Misha’s shaking apart, his head resting on his forearm on the table, a litany of nonsense words tumbling from his lips. His body jerks every time Jensen’s tongue catches on the rim, teasing at the muscle, encouraging it to relax.

Jensen wants to touch him. Wants to wrap his hand around Misha’s cock and bring him off. But he needs his hands here, too, holding Misha open. He pauses, rests his forehead against Misha’s flushed skin, and Misha rasps out a _son of a bitch_ as Jensen tries to catch his breath and slow his heart. He reaches for Misha’s wrist, the tendons there thrumming from how hard he’s been holding onto the table, and guides Misha’s hand to his cock, gently wraps Misha’s fingers around himself. The head is glistening with precome, and Jensen swipes his thumb over it, presses lightly at the slit and grins at the shudder that rolls through Misha.

Jensen lets Misha come down a little, watches him gulp for air and give his flushed cock a gentle squeeze. He uses the time to adjust himself, hisses as he eases the zipper of his jeans down over his cock. He presses the heel of his hand to the base and takes a long breath. With the pressure released, he thinks now he can finish Misha off the way he wants. Stoke the fire back up and make him scream.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye; Misha stroking himself nice and slow, sticky-slick with precome. His body twitches when he thumbs over the head, gathering the liquid, making his way easier. Jensen glances at Misha’s face then, and sees a glint of blue, Misha’s mouth a firm line. If Misha could talk, Jensen is sure he’d be saying _finish what you started already, asshole._

Jensen chuckles.

With his hands back on Misha’s ass opening him up again, Jensen gives him a long, wet swipe of his tongue. Misha’s knees wobble when Jensen catches his teeth on the rim, a sharp jolt that makes Misha growl, but then Jensen’s soothing the pain with short, soft licks. He presses further into Misha, his beard scrubbing at the skin between Misha’s cheeks.

He thumbs again at Misha’s hole, gently, coaxing it open to work his tongue in. Short, almost ticklish jabs with the tip that have Misha gasping broken curses. The rhythm of his hand falters, stops, and he’s all but shoving his ass in Jensen’s face, trying to fuck himself on Jensen’s tongue.

Misha is wet and open and Jensen is able to pass the first ring of muscle easily. Teases at the hot clench of Misha around him, groaning, his nails digging into Misha’s ass. Misha’s so close, now, his back and legs tensing, high-pitched little _ah ah ahs_ barely audible over the blood rushing in Jensen’s ears. Jensen pulls out then thrusts in one last time, and that’s what pushes Misha over the edge, so hard the table shifts, a _jesus fucking christ_ torn from his throat.

The sudden change in balance has Jensen almost falling flat on his face. He ends up clinging to Misha’s thighs to keep from pitching them both forward. Before Jensen has time to adjust himself and give his knees some relief, Misha's legs give out and Jensen's busy trying to prevent Misha from falling on his cock.

Misha is flushed and sweaty, eyes closed, panting like he’s just run a marathon and Jensen manhandles him a little, trying to get them both more comfortable. Somehow, Jensen manages to slip his legs out from under himself and settle Misha between his thighs, a little to the left. He trails his fingers over Misha’s face, pushing the hair off his forehead, thumbing the sweat away from his eyes. He realizes that Misha’s panting _jesus_ over and over, and Jensen’s smile is wide and proud and more than a little smug.

They sit like that for long minutes, Misha coming down by degrees, breath evening out, words quieting. Jensen subtly strokes himself, peeks at the clock and chuckles. Misha, eyes still closed, licks at his lips. “What’s...” he pants, licks his lips again. They remain dry, Misha obviously in need of a tall glass of water. “What’s so funny,” he manages to finish.

“I got my ten minutes after all.”

Misha elbows him in the stomach, but he’s grinning, nose scrunching, and then he shifts, frowns as he looks down. Jensen does, too. Can see the gleam of precome on Misha’s elbow and Misha side-eyes him. “I suppose you expect me to do something about that?” Misha asks, glancing down to watch the leaking head of Jensen’s cock disappear in the circle of his hand.

Jensen shrugs, nonchalant. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your pro--” He’s interrupted by Misha’s mouth on his, hot and insistent. Then, with a move he shouldn’t have the energy or coordination to make, Misha straddles Jensen’s thighs, his hands shaky but firm when he grasps Jensen’s wrist, stilling his movement. He waits patiently, eyebrow arched, for Jensen to let go, and he does. Leans back against the row of cabinets behind them to give Misha more room.

He hisses when Misha wraps slim fingers around his cock, sliding up agonizingly slow. Misha thumbs at the bundle of nerves there, sweeps over the head and Jensen’s neck strains to keep from whipping his head back.

Jensen’s hands fall on Misha’s hips, fingers digging into the skin, and he bucks, yelling, “Oh _christ_ ,” when Misha’s fingernail digs at his slit.

He’s close, so _fucking_ close, but Misha’s got a glint in his eye that says this is Jensen’s punishment -- for watching -- and Jensen whines, actually fucking _whines_ when Misha does nothing other than continue his slow glide up and down, occasionally giving the base a healthy squeeze or thumbing over the head for more lubrication.

Jensen’s hand on Misha’s hips squeeze so tight, he’s almost afraid the bones will break from the force of it as he’s tries to thrust into Misha’s hand, stunted movements that don’t achieve much other than inspire Misha to slow his rhythm even more.

Jensen grits his teeth, and grinds out, “Misha _fuck_ please. I gotta... move... do _something_ , goddamn it.” He tries to cover Misha’s hand and slot their fingers together, quicken his pace, but Misha only clicks his tongue, batting it away. He speeds up, though, and leans in to suck a bruise into Jensen’s neck.

“Misha, I swear to fucking _god_...” He doesn’t get to finish the statement because Misha’s sucking at his lip, chuckling low and dirty at Jensen’s frustration.

“Just teaching you a lesson,” Misha murmurs, snapping his teeth at Jensen’s chin. He tilts back and slips his other hand between Jensen’s legs, softly strokes at the perineum. The hand on Jensen’s cock speeds up, his thumb pressing at the slit and Jensen is coming, back arched bow-tight, his fingers vise-like on Misha’s hips, voice shattered.

Jensen falls against the cabinet, the corner of the moulding digging sharp into his shoulder. He doesn’t care, though, with Misha’s face tucked into his neck, Misha’s arms tight around Jensen’s waist. They’re both sweaty and sticky and spent, gasping for air. Belatedly, Jensen realizes he’s shivering and that Misha’s stroking his knuckles across the small of Jensen’s back. It makes Jensen chuckle.

Misha’s hand stills, his voice damp and muffled against Jensen’s skin when he asks, “What’s so funny?”

Jensen shakes his head, smiling. “You’re the one who’s naked and I’m the one who’s shivering.”

“It’s that Texas blood,” Misha says knowingly, his thumb stroking the swell of Jensen’s ass. “Can’t handle anything colder than seventy degrees.” Jensen pinches Misha's thigh, but doesn’t argue.

They sit like that for long, quiet moments, Misha with his face still tucked in the crook of Jensen’s neck, Jensen’s palm flat in the dip of Misha’s spine, thumb tracing the curve of it. Misha sighs and shifts a little, makes a small sound of annoyance when he flexes the hand still between them, sticky and gross from their sweat and come. Jensen looks down and snorts. “I guess we should get cleaned up.” Neither of them moves, though.

“I’m hungry,” Misha says suddenly, yawning at the end of it.

Jensen turns his head a little to press a kiss to the bolt of Misha’s jaw. “That means we’re going to have to move, y’know.” He keeps his voice low and soothing.

Misha hums, yawning again. “Okay.” He brushes his lips over Jensen’s pulse and seems to resettle himself on Jensen’s lap, pushing closer. Jensen welcomes the body heat.

"Five minutes?" Jensen asks, pulling his legs in and wrapping his arms around Misha's waist, fingers linked together. He rests his head against Misha’s and his eyes slip closed.

Jensen can feel the smirk against his skin when Misha replies, "Make it ten."


End file.
